


Recalibration

by Pyroai



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroai/pseuds/Pyroai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of TWS, Bucky is taken in by the Avengers. No one is sure what to expect from HYDRA's efficient weapon but he poses a lot of challenges. Steve has to learn that Bucky will never be the same person he was before, Bucky works on forgiving himself for his sins and tries to regain what he can of his memories, and everyone else does what they can for the duo even as HYDRA tries to reclaim what they believe belongs to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eyy. I don't even know what to put in the notes. This is a thing I've wanted to write for awhile now.

For a second, he could only stare at the man standing in front of him. The feeling was mutual, they both ended up standing there, staring at each other in the middle of a crowded New York sidewalk. The man was familiar. He could remember the helicarrier and he could easily remember taking this man down, ripping off one of the fancy wings he had been using to glide effortlessly through the air and take down members of HYDRA’s team. He couldn’t put a name to the face but he knew this man was associated with Steve Rogers. At the time of the helicarrier, this man had been nothing but a nuisance. Not a high threat, but an inconvenience to be taken care of. 

Now he was a threat, and the asset paused to debate his next course of action while the familiar man appeared stunned and frozen.

It was an unfortunate meeting. Pure coincidence. They had nearly bumped into each other on the crowded sidewalk before recognition kicked in. Under normal circumstances, the asset would have subtly taken this man out. He worked with an organization that was to be avoided at all cost, letting him leave was a liability. But the asset was no longer owned by HYDRA, he had been out of their grasp for months and had no intention of falling back on his programming unless it was an emergency.

The asset took a step to the right and continued walking, ignoring the hastily called out, “Wait!” that was shouted out behind him. He slipped easily into the crowd, his pace quick but casual and he dodged and weaved through the heavy throngs of people. If there was one thing he was good at being, it was invisible, and he took comfort in that. He didn’t hear anyone else call out for him and he continued walking.

It felt like a personal victory against HYDRA. 

He was starting to rack those up, keeping track of them in his mind. Every second away from their control was another victory. Every dead HYDRA agent at his feet was another. Every time he resisted his programming, he cataloged it away and reveled in the feeling of pride it gave him. When he would wake up screaming from nightmares, when he would look in the mirror only to break it seconds later, when he would be reduced to a shuddering mass of terror and self-loathing on the floor of whatever motel he was staying in, he would force himself to remember his small victories and he would add another to the list when he finally got a hold of himself.

The paranoia itched at the back of his mind, a million scenarios playing out in his head. The man back there could report to SHIELD and he would be detained. It would most likely mean death. HYDRA had that beaten into his head. Failure was pain and capture was failure. The man he just let go could be his downfall and all it would have taken to avoid it was a simple knife to the gut. He had one in the pocket of his hoodie, clasped tightly in a metal grip and some part of him longed to go back and take out the threat to his location. 

He kept walking and every step was another small victory. The asset kept his eyes forward, refused to listen and track the footsteps around him to see if he was being followed, he refused to fall back on that paranoia and it made him feel proud despite how tightly he clutched the weapon in his pocket.

It was like this every day for him. It was a constant struggle against the things that had been implanted and burned deep inside his mind, erasing the things that were deemed too human to be important to HYDRA’s mission. 

At first, the struggle was just surviving. HYDRA was strict with him. He was fed and hydrated through IVs, only allowed to eat on missions when hunger and thirst threatened his functionality. Cleaning was carried out before and after missions, done but HYDRA associates with rough hands and hoses full of stinging, disinfecting liquids. Eating and drinking felt like betrayal. He couldn’t pass a HYDRA safe house without tensing and fighting the urge to return, to go back and turn himself in, and sometimes the conflicting feelings swirling in his head would leave him curled up in an alley somewhere, fighting and usually losing to keep whatever food he had stolen down in his stomach instead of on the pavement. 

A few times they had found him like that and he made sure to slit the throats of every agent sent to recapture him and then he would move on. 

Eventually the struggle became easier. Now, he regularly visited the safe houses to kill everyone inside, steal whatever he needed in terms of money, and burn the place to the ground.

Some programming was easier to fight. Touches made him jumpy and a few times he had nearly stabbed a store clerk or a stranger on the street simply because they passed too close or casually laid a hand on him. He never killed them, though. Terrified them, but when he slipped the knife away and ran, there wasn’t a scratch on them.

He never stayed too long in one place while he recuperated. It was too dangerous. He had HYDRA after him, he was sure SHIELD was looking for him, and the civilian police force had a warrant out for his arrest. At first he was terrified of going out in public, even with his arm covered and his hair pulled back under a baseball cap, but gradually he realized that no one took the police report seriously. It was like a joke to them. It was an actual joke to some. They talked about it with a laugh as they recounted the time that aliens attacked New York and the time some guy down at Culver turned into a big, green radiation monster. 

_Besides, if you look up this Winter Soldier online, he’s a Russian myth that’s been around almost a hundred years!_

The Winter Solider was a myth but Captain America was all anyone talked about and rallied behind. The asset was glad for it. He resumed his ghost-like status easily enough and from then on, the public never bothered him. He hid in a plain sight and used the people for cover while he investigated. 

After he had gotten his mind under control he started up a two part investigation. Firstly, research about himself and Captain America. He started at museums and libraries, touring around the United States to find out as much as he could. He managed to dig up an address in Brooklyn that led him to dark streets and a decrepit building that told him nothing. He explored the streets and alleys, stopping every so often because something looked familiar but no memories ever resurfaced. He would look at something and just know. Like the knowledge was buried in the back of his mind but he couldn’t recall images or any further information. He would just stop and look at the side of a building behind a dumpster and know that at one point, he had broken someone’s jaw back here defending something important to his very being. What, he couldn’t place. But he knew it had happened.

He visited an army camp, now also shut down and closed up. He was sure that at one point, he had lay in the mud on his back and stared up at the raining sky, wishing he was anywhere but there. 

He repeated the posture, laying down in the grass and staring up at the starry sky, thinking that it might give him something to work with. An image, maybe. Something other than the lingering feeling of nonexistent raindrops on his cheeks. There was nothing and he moved on. He cautiously went back to DC and staked out an apartment he had shot through. It was empty by the time he got there, no traces of anyone living there besides public records that said it was once under SHIELD’s budget.

The second part of his investigation was to find and interrogate HYDRA members. He did it with the same terrifying efficiency he always carried out missions with. No one had any information. The asset was positive they were telling the truth as the cried and begged him. He was the Winter Soldier, they knew him, they knew what he could do and what he had done. If they had any information they would tell him to spare the slow torture they knew he was capable of. Hell, they had programmed the slow torture into him, they knew full well what he could do. Unfortunately for them, just because they were telling the truth didn’t mean the asset would make things easier for them. He took his time.

Now he was in New York City but the place he was currently trying to case was a little bit more difficult. The security measures made it hard for him to get close to the building without tipping off the enemy.

He was the Winter Soldier, though, and nothing was impossible. It was just a matter of finding an employee with a high enough clearance level and a HYDRA safe house where he could make preparations. He had everything planned out already, including the employee he would be temporarily kidnapping. A man by the name of Paul Lewis, who’s clearance level could get him close enough to the upper floors that the asset could easily and without much effort get himself there the rest of the way. He had a small device prepared that would render the security system offline, and then he could--

A strong arm landed on his shoulder and he only had a fraction of a second to prepare himself before he was yanked into a side alley between two small shops. It was the first time in his memory he had ever been caught off guard, mostly because he refused to allow his usual paranoia to sink in. Stupid. He should have expected this, but prepared or not he reacted quickly and his knife was out of his pocket before he was even fully in the alley, the pull only unbalancing him for a second before he planted his feet on the ground and pivoted with the other person, knife aimed for the neck. 

It hit something solid and glanced off, the blow jarring the asset’s arm. He ripped out of the grip on his shoulder, stepping swiftly out of range so he had several seconds to process the situation. 

He was facing off against a man hiding behind and red, white, and blue shield. One that immediately dropped the second the asset was out of range. It wasn’t just lowered, but it was completely dropped to the ground, ringing out softly as it hit the concrete, the man behind it raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender. 

Steve Rogers. 

“If you’re going to stab me, make it quick. We’re gathering a crowd.”

He sounded far to calm for someone facing off against the Winter Soldier, but the asset had come to expect this from his target. His eyes only flickered away for a second to the front of the alley, where some people were stopped, starring. One reached into her purse to pull out a phone. Cautiously, the asset stepped on the edge of the shield so he could grab the edge. He kept his eyes firmly on his target as he nodded down the alley. “Walk.” 

Steve nodded once before shooting the crowd a friendly smile. “Nothing to see, folks.” His arms lowered but the asset made note that he kept them a few inches from his body, making sure they were visible as he walked away from the main street and the few people who had been watching. 

Shield and knife in hand, the asset followed until they rounded several corners and he issued a simple, “Stop,” in case he was being led into an ambush. 

Steve stopped, turning on his heel and once again putting his hands up. He wasn’t in uniform. There was nothing stars and stripes about him besides the shield currently not in his possession. Instead he was wearing slacks and a flannel shirt. He offered a small smile, something that barely flickered the edges of his lips and didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Sam said he ran into you on Fifth and Main.” His voice was just as casual as his attire. 

The asset regarded him for a second before speaking in a gruff, disused voice. “I was planning on visiting but your security measures warranted preparation.” 

The smile slipped as Steve nodded again, still keeping his hands up. “I have the feeling your visit wouldn’t be a cordial one if you’re sneaking in instead of ringing the doorbell.” 

Another beat of silence in response as the asset tilted his head, eyes analyzing and calculating. Steve didn’t seem upset at the potential threat, wasn’t even bitter about it. Just a statement of facts. Even now, defenseless, he was unconcerned. Something about Steve’s attitude struck him wrong, flared up a long buried anger that only resurfaced when there HYDRA bases to be trashed and agents to be tortured. In a smooth motion, the shield was thrown down at Steve’s feet. 

“Pick it up.” 

Steve glanced at it before his eyes returned to the asset. “I don’t need it.” 

He was quick, nothing more than a blur as he got close enough that when he held out his arm, the tip of his knife rested against his target’s neck, right under his jaw. “Pick it up.” 

“You’ll have to kill me while I’m defenseless, Buck. I’m not touching it.” 

The anger flared up again, quick and irrational, and he didn’t allow his programming to cover up the feeling burning through his veins. Emotions were dangerous, emotions made you act irrationally, so usually they were destroyed before they could even surface. This time the asset allowed them to flow through him and he acted on impulse. Knife clutched tightly in his metal arm, he swiftly raised it and brought the handle of his weapon down across Steve’s face while sweeping a leg out and kicking Steve’s out from under him. He went down hard, the breath knocked out of him and blood trickling down the side of his face as he looked up at the asset. 

“Pick it up.” His voice was as cold and hard as the abandoned shield. 

Steve shook his head and fought to get his breath back. “I won’t.” 

The asset was on him, a fist hitting him squarely on the nose, hard enough that he could hear and feel the crack of cartilage over the pounding of blood in his ears. His fist came back bloody and he raised it again, voice sharp and high. “Why!” It came down again. “Why are you always so fucking reckless! Pick up your shield! Fight me!” Steve’s face was a blur in his eyes, his flesh and blood hand shaking, a lot more than anger pumping through him but he refused to let himself think about his actions or words. This was the most he had felt in so long and he clung to it, letting the emotions use and consume him. When Steve shook his head weakly, he raised his metal arm with the knife, growling. There was the sound of his arm calibrating for a heavy hit before he allowed the buildup of energy to release, point of his knife aimed for Steve’s face. 

Right before he could stab it through Steve’s head, his moved his arm a fraction to the right so the knife slammed into concrete. He made sure that he twisted his wrist just right, so when the blade snapped it flew away from Steve.

Just as quickly as it had come on, the anger faded, leaving him feeling empty and exhausted. He sat there over Steve, panting, the hilt of his knife pressed into cracked concrete. Steve stared evenly up at him, bruises forming around and on his nose, breathing through his mouth. He continued laying there, catching his breath even as the asset stood up, motions jerky, to give himself some space between him and his target. The knife handle was still clutched tightly in his hand as he leaned his forehead against the rough bricks of the alley wall. He heard a rustle as Steve sat up but otherwise things were still for awhile until the other found his voice. 

“If you got into the tower, were you going to kill me?” His voice was thick from his broken nose but the asset knew it wouldn’t take long to heal.

He shrugged, mentally debating on any elaboration. After a pause he added a quiet, “I wanted to talk.”

“Then let’s--“ 

There was the sound of something heavy hitting the roof of a building framing them and both turned at the same time to see a red and gold figure sitting up there. 

“A little birdie told me some trouble might go down, looks like I got here just in time.” 

The asset tensed at the mechanical voice, then took a hasty step towards the front of the alley when Steve started getting to his feet. He had fucked up. Of course Steve had backup, backup that wouldn’t be willing to put down their weapons and now he was short a knife and outnumbered. The tactical part of his mind knew there was no way he could fight off Steve and this newcomer. His eyes darted to the two exits, trying to remember if he had cased this alleyway during his exploration of the city. Steve was on his feet, eyes locked on the asset and one hand out, as if to tell him to wait. 

“Tony, not now!”

The red and gold man stood up from his landing position. “We talked about this, Cap.” 

“We talked about letting me handle the situation!” 

“We also talked about you not putting yourself into risky situations without backup, now didn’t we? The way I see it, you laying bloodied on the ground with a HYDRA weapon standing over you is a little more than a risky situation.” The iron mask turned to face the asset with slitted, glowing eyes. “Hey there. I’m Tony Stark.” He raised a hand, palm glowing blue. It was not a pacifying gesture. “I don’t suggest moving.”

“Tony, no!” 

Stark. The name was familiar. The asset didn’t plan on sticking around to find out. He turned on his heel and ran, ignoring Steve’s call of, “Bucky!” and the blast that echoed out behind him, shattering bricks and stinging the back of his neck.

A glance over his shoulder told him Tony had taken to the air. Tony was faster and had the advantage, but he didn’t have the Winter Soldier’s mind. The asset only had a few seconds head start but Tony was cocky. Instead of flying over the buildings he followed through the alley, which gave the asset a chance to round the next corner and jump for a fire escape. The second Tony rounded the corner, the asset had used the extra height to propel himself towards Tony and grab a hold of the suit’s legs, momentarily throwing it off balance. A repulsor stuttered, burning him but bringing Tony down a notch. 

What fully brought him down was the shield that was thrown at him from the mouth of the alley, ringing against metal before flying back towards it's owner.

“Tony! Bucky! Stop it!” 

The command went ignored as both the asset and Tony crashed to the ground. The asset got his wits about him first and a metal hand closed around the head of the suit. A few seconds for calibration and then it was squeezing down on the helmet, fingers making dents in the armor. 

“Whoa, hey there!” Tony raised an arm, repulsor charging up, but the asset quickly let go of his helmet, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard enough to shatter the bolts and rivets holding it in place. Tony raised the other arm but didn’t wait to take aim. He used the blast to propel him backwards, right out of the alley and into the line of traffic. The asset doubted the car that hit him did much damage but it was enough that it would put him down for a precious few moments and allow him escape. He turned only to find Steve blocking his path.

Not for long. Steve dipped into his pocket, holding out a white card with a bar code on it and the insignia of the Avengers. He seemed hesitant but he stepped off to the side. 

“Go, but take this. If you come to the tower, no one’s going to attack you, you have my personal promise. This will get you inside with no problems.” The asset hesitated but there wasn’t much time for his escape. He took the card with a single nod before running, not stopping even when Steve shouted out, “Please, Bucky! Come to the tower!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's an ass. The asset decides to pay Steve a visit. He's not expecting to find anything, but he ends up with a cause he believes might make him a slightly better person than he was before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disgruntled bucky noises. im still getting into the swing of writing things again, this fucking sucks and im sorry

“Your friend packs one hell of a punch.” 

Steve has to admit to himself, seeing Tony on the couch still in his suit with the mask up and a bag of cold peas pressed to a bruise on the side of his face makes him feel a little bit better about the situation. Karma, he thinks. He doesn’t bother dwelling on the fact that there were peas in the freezer when he’s pretty sure no one in the tower actually eats peas and he doesn’t even want to know how long they’ve been stashed up there. 

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have gotten involved. I had the situation handled.” 

Just because there’s karma in Tony’s injuries doesn’t mean he’s not still pissed. While Tony lounges on the couch, he paces and ignores Natasha and Clint’s stares.

And Tony’s skeptical snort. “Right. Situation handled. Because handling it is totally sitting back while you childhood friend turned assassin rearranges your face. Remember when you told me I needed to start asking for backup during missions if I needed some help? Hypocritical, Cap. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Steve huffs for the fifth time, repeating for the seventh time, “You came after the fight. By the time you go there, he was calmed down and willing to talk.” 

“Didn’t look like that from my vantage point.” 

Steve throws up his hands and decides to call it quits. Obviously no one can argue with Tony Stark when Tony Stark thinks he’s right. Why he’s even trying, he doesn’t know. The fight wasn’t even that bad by Avengers standards. Despite the dried blood on his face, Steve’s nose was already healed and didn’t even twinge with pain. The bruising on his face had faded to a sickly yellow-green color that meant it would be gone in an hour and then there wouldn’t be even the slightest signs of the back-alley fight he had with Bucky. 

He stops arguing with Tony and instead steps into the small kitchen area with Natasha and Clint, annoyance on every line of his face. He manages to clear it away and adopt his business-expression as he drops his voice to address Natasha. “I need a favor.” 

She and Clint lean forward. Steve’s learned that super spies have the ability to sense a conspiracy when they hear one and he doesn’t disappoint. 

“Can you hack into Stark’s computer and add Bucky’s information to my ID?” Clint’s expression turns from mildly excited to slightly guarded but Natasha has the decency to school her expression into something not so outright disapproving.

Still, she asks, “Is that a good idea?” 

It’s not. There’s some logical part of Steve’s mind that realizes what a horrible idea this is but there’s another part of his mind that knows Bucky. Knows that no matter how fucked up he is after HYDRA’s brainwashing, there are things Bucky would never allow himself to do. Logically it’s a horrible idea but sometimes good ol’ human intuition is more accurate than logic and Steve trusts his gut on this one. So he shrugs, because saying yes would be lying and Natasha would see right through it. 

“A high-tech security system isn’t going to stop him if he really wants to get in here, will it?” Natasha’s expression never changes but gives a single nod because she knows just as well it’s true, if not moreso considering she’s dealt with the Winter Soldier before. “If anyone can hack into Stark’s computer system, I know it’s you. He has my ID already, just disable some of the security protocols.” 

“I can disable the retinal scan but if I get rid of all security measures it might alert Tony.” 

Steve thinks for a second before adjusting his shield in his hand and gingerly holding it out to Natasha. “Can you get prints off of this and enter them into the database? He wasn’t wearing a glove when he grabbed it.” 

“It’ll see what I can do.” 

It’s like a weight is lifted from Steve’s chest when he takes the shield and briskly walks off with it, Tony too busy griping on the couch to notice the exchange. The pressure is gone for approximately two point four seconds before Clint slams it back in with a muttered, “Cap, you should really think about this.” 

He turns to glare at the other. “Don’t start with me too.” 

Clint holds up both hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’m not starting anything, I’m just saying you need to think about this. You’re close to him and sometimes that can blind you from the truth of the situation. _But_ ,” he quickly adds when Steve opens his mouth to cut in, “I’m not saying you should completely disregard your emotions either. You know this guy better than any of us. This is a touchy situation and even though I’ve had my head tampered with too, this is a lot different. It’s going to take more than some cognitive recalibration in your friend’s case. It’s going to take some familiarity to help him, if anything can. Just don’t rely completely on your emotions, because there’s a good chance there’s nothing left of your friend to save.” 

It’s earnest advice, spoken truthfully and without any of the haughty attitude Tony would have given. Steve bites back the snarky reply he would have shot at anyone else, but this was Clint leveling with him instead of speaking down to him. So instead Steve nods. 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” 

\---

The asset waits several days before making his move. He spends a lot of his down time twirling the ID card between his fingers. It’s a simple white card with a barcode and the Avengers symbol, nothing like the complex IDs of the scientists and PR people that work in the lower floors of the building. There’s no name on it to show who it’s assigned to, no picture, no anything that would identify this as Captain America’s or Steve Rogers's. The asset spends a lot of time staring at the card and going over all the ways this could be a trap but every time he pictures Steve’s face, earnest and pleading as he holds out the card before stepping back to allow the asset to make his escape. 

He looked pained in a way that he didn’t when he was getting his face smashed in and it’s an expression that sticks with the asset as he sits alone and plots his next move. 

There are several more HYDRA bases in the area and several more that the asset knows about in other locations that he could be going after. They would lead him to more bases and more things to blow up and more people to kill but he knows that none of the agents he captures will provide him with any of the information that he wants. Needs. The urge to know who he was is burning him up inside and no amount of death and blood can curb it. He’s done all the research he could on his own and now there’s only one option left for information and he’s holding the literal key to get to it.

He wants to wait a few weeks before potentially walking into a trap, knowing that the more time he waits the less likely they’ll be prepared. They’re not even sure he’s going to show up, he reminds himself. 

Within two days of doing nothing more than surviving he feels restless and caged in his motel room. He moves to a different location and then starts planning. He already has escape routes and floor plans memorized, the only thing he has left to do is prepare for any potential traps. He has a good pileup of weapons he’s taken from HYDRA bases, knives and guns, and he tucks them away carefully in a familiar black uniform. It’s not something he particularly enjoys wearing. It reminds him too much of HYDRA, but it’s efficient because his muscles remember where every knife and every firearm is located. He doesn’t have to think or memorize where he places his tools, he just knows that there are three knives tucked in his left boot, there’s one strapped to his thigh to the right of a .75 caliber pistol, there’s another knife in his right sleeve and two more guns strapped to either side. If he’s disarmed in a fight, he doesn’t have to think about where his next weapon is located because his body knows and he’s reaching for it without thought. The outfit makes him feel tight and confined, like he’s going out on another mission that will end with him reporting back to his handlers, but for safety reasons it’s a logical choice so he ignores the way his chest constricts with barely withheld panic as he dresses himself. 

At least he’s the one dressing himself this time.

He goes at night. It’s barely past two in the morning when he cautiously scans his card at the doors of Stark Tower. They buzz and then he’s in the empty lobby. The lights are dim and unlike the times he’s staked the place, there are no humming scientists or buzzing secretaries hurrying about their work. The place is a grave and the asset is on the edge the entire him. The lobby is too open. There’s no cover. He makes his way quickly and silently to an elevator in the back, marked with the same symbol his card is. It’s the only elevator with a control pad next to it and he hesitates before scanning the card again. 

The control panels lights up with a single green circle, a generic fingerprint pattern on it. 

Every part of the asset screams at him to abandon his mission. It’s unnecessary and they’re tracking him. Leaving behind evidence is the biggest mistake and a fingerprint is suicide. He doesn’t even know if it will work, it’s a trap, the second he presses his finger to the panel alarms will start going off and SHIELD agents will be on him in seconds, this is--

His movement his jerky when he presses his whole right hand to the panel before lining up his finger with the glowing print, fighting everything that’s been conditioned into him. The part of him that can still feel proud flares up when he doesn’t jump at the smooth, accented voice that greets him with, “Good evening, Mr. Barnes,” as the elevator door slides open.

The asset has never once felt his heart pound in his throat during a mission but he’s been out of his conditioning for a long time and his moods and body are no longer altered before and after a mission. He’s been feeling a lot of things he’s never felt before but nervousness is a new one and he doesn’t like how it flutters and twists at his stomach like there’s something alive in there. A part of him wishes he could hide behind the cold and numb like he used to and he’s sure he could fall behind his conditioning once again and rid himself of the troubling feeling but he defiantly deals with it as he steps into the elevator. 

There’s no buttons to press. The second he’s inside, the metal doors slid shut and he swallows down the feeling of being trapped in a confined area.

The ride is quicker than he would have assumed and then he’s stepping carefully into a dark foyer. 

The first residential floor is empty and dark. The asset walks silently through the darkness, feeling himself calm. He can be invisible in the dark and so far there’s been no sign of a trap. He’s unsettled by how easy this is, but it’s a familiar feeling that he’s dealt with on previous missions and it only serves to make him more watchful of his surroundings. He can almost pretend, in the black stairways and halls, that this is a normal mission. 

When he hits the top of a staircase and hears nearly silent footsteps, he pauses in the dark, his heart beating calmly and his breaths even and silent through his nose. The hall is dark but he can just make out the feminine shadow of a woman. She pauses and glances his way but the asset doesn’t move an inch, knowing the darkness hides him. Sure enough, she shakes her head once and continues down the hall a few seconds later, disappearing through a sliding door with a soft whoosh. 

The next floor up is Steve’s room. 

The automatic sliding doors are replaced by normal ones besides two, one leading to gym and the other leading to a training room. The asset knows which one leads to Steve’s room and he pauses outside the door, listening until he’s sure he hears nothing. Steve’s asleep when the door opens silently and he doesn’t stir when it’s closed without a sound.

The room has a clean, military feel about it. In the dim lighting, the asset can make out several exits. The window is an option, albeit a more dangerous one. There’s a door that leads to the bathroom and another that leads to the dead end of a closet, not viable solutions if he needs to run but there’s an air vent in the bathroom if he’s really desperate. Exits secure, he looks around for potential weapons. There’s a bookshelf that’s not bolted to the wall and the books and other various knickknacks are heavy enough to at least slow someone down. The desk has a heavy lamp on it and sharpened pencils. The sketchbooks and papers neatly stacked on the surface aren’t useful. The corkboard above it, however, has pins holding papers to its surface. The sitting area looks like the table is light enough to easily lift. Another lamp on the table near the bed and sitting leaned up against the wall near the closet is Steve’s shield. 

The room is categorized neatly in the asset’s head before he even takes a look at the form in bed, curled up around a pillow and sleeping soundly. It would be incredibly easy to kill him and if the asset used a knife, he could probably sneak out without anyone to stop him. 

Then again, he could have killed Steve a dozen times over by now without putting much effort into it. He could have killed Steve on the helicarrier, he could have let Steve drown, he could have killed Steve back in the alley, why would he kill Steve now when he decided not to a handful of times before?

Instead he stood in the doorway after gently clicking the lock into place and watched Steve sleep. He doubted the lock would have withstood any of the Avengers for more than a few seconds if they wanted to bust their way in, but at least it would give him a second’s warning before he was attacked. 

For the next fifteen minutes he watched the slow rise and fall of Steve’s chest, getting the vague, prickling feeling of wrongness he had experienced several times since detaching from HYDRA. It was the same feeling he had in the back alleys of Brooklyn and the same feeling he had visiting in the old military base. No memories surfaced, but he felt like the bulk of Steve under the blanket was too big and the deep, even breaths should have a slight wheeze to the end of them. 

The asset stood there, silent and watchful, for a good hour before Steve moved. 

He stirred sleepily at first, yawning and stretching before settling back down. A minute later he actual sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, through his hair, and then back over his face before he tuned into his surroundings enough to see the tense figure standing in front of his door. Steve froze and the asset watched his eyes dart to his shield and then back before he visibly relaxed, letting out a soft puff of air. 

“Hey.” He was whispering but it sounded loud in the wake of an hour’s silence. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come, Bucky.” He sounds stunned and breathless, as if he was holding in his excitement. 

The name strikes the asset and now that he’s not fighting, now that he’s visiting Steve on his own terms instead of getting dragged off, he allows himself to think over the name. “Bucky.” He says it, not for the first time, just to see how the word shapes his mouth and like every other time, it feels foreign and weird on his tongue. His eyes narrow slightly and he takes a step forward. Steve doesn’t even twitch. “I’m not him.” The asset no longer sounds thoughtful, but adamant, as if it’s vital that Steve understands this because it is. Steve needs to know. It feels like the most important mission of all, to get it through Steve’s thick god damn head that he is not Bucky. “I’m not him.” 

“Then who are you?” 

The question should have been expected but it throws the asset off anyway. The Winter Soldier? No. He doesn’t want to be the Winter Soldier anymore. The Winter Soldier was a weapon, a tool of HYDRA, and he’s past that now. He’s been thinking of himself as the asset, but that carries the same connotation, like he’s nothing more than a tool to be used and he’s spent awhile crafting himself into some semblance of his own person. He takes another step forward, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know but I’m not him.”

There are a lot of thoughts jumbled up in his head. Thoughts about Steve, about himself, about HYDRA, a million and one questions that only a select few people can answer and he’s not even sure where to begin but in the back of his mind there’s the thought of somehow disappointing the person in front of him. He had beaten this man’s face in, tried to kill him on multiple occasions, but the thought of disappointing him sits like a weight, irrational and hot, in the asset’s chest. He couldn’t explain it if he tried and that frustrated him to no end. 

Steve stared, long and searching, before he slowly nodded. “Alright.” It was like the weight had been lifted and the asset sucked in a breath. “Alright, you’re not him. I understand that. You’re not the same person. But I’ll be damned if I’m giving up on you either way.”

The words didn’t bring the heaviness back but it did twist in the asset’s thoughts, bringing up more questions. The only thing he could ask was a simple, “Why?” 

It didn’t make sense. After all he had done, hell after what he had done merely a few days ago, Steve was still determined to help him. He wasn’t this man’s friend, Steve even admitted to it himself, so why? 

“Because everyone deserves a second chance. And even if you’re not him, you’re still my friend, and I’m not going to give up on you.”

Something clicked in the asset’s mind beneath the confusion and frustration. He couldn’t explain Steve’s logic, couldn’t begin to comprehend what stupid thoughts were running through this man’s head, but it all added up to one thing. Steve was _good_. To his very core he was a good person. The asset didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve the kindness or the shot at a second chance but here was Steve, sitting there, unafraid and offering him the chance to be something better. A part of his mind rebelled, spat insults in Russian and told him he would never, never be a better person. Not with the blood on his hands, not the with the kills under his belt and with how fucked up his mind was. But he was drawn to the idea of being something more than a mindless weapon and more than that, he was drawn to Steve.

Stupid fucking Steve Rogers, who threw down his shield and who laid down in an alley and accepted a beating and would probably get himself fucking killed one of these days, offering up a second chance to someone who didn’t want it. 

It clicked that Steve Rogers was something special and even if the asset could never be a good person, even if he could never be the person Steve wanted him to be, he could at least redeem himself by staying by this man and making sure he didn’t get himself killed. He would never be a good person but he could, for once in his memory, have a good mission worth carrying out. 

“If you don’t want me to call you Bucky I’ll stop,” Steve offered. “But at the very least I think you should stay here.”

The asset’s tongue nervously flickered over his lip before he gave a small nod. “Call me whatever you want. I’ll stay.”


End file.
